CHAPTER VII
IN THE OPIUM DEN
Interrupting a spell of warm, fine weather the night had set in wet and stormy. The squalid streets through which Stuart and Gaston Max made their way looked more than normally deserted and uninviting. The wind moaned and the rain accompanied with a dreary tattoo. Sometimes a siren wailed out upon the river.
"We are nearly there," said Max. "Pardieu! they are well concealed, those fellows. I have not seen so much as an eyebrow."
"It would be encouraging to get a glimpse of some one!" replied Stuart.
"Ah, but bad—inartistic. It is the next door, I think … yes. I hope they have no special way of knocking."
Upon the door of a dark and apparently deserted shop he rapped.
Both had anticipated an interval of waiting, and both were astonished when the door opened almost at once, revealing a blackly cavernous interior.
"Go off! Too late! Shuttee shop!" chattered a voice out of the darkness.
Max thrust his way resolutely in, followed by Stuart. "Shut the door, Ah-Fang-Fu!" he said curtly, speaking with a laboured French accent. "Scorpion!"